


Just What I Needed

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Confused Castiel, Confused Dean, Cuddling, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Guilty Castiel, Headcanon, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Season Seven that Wasn't, Slash, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, glacial build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after the events of “Writing on the Wall,” Dean finally talks to Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just What I Needed

_August 2012_

Screw cheerleaders, man. _Nobody_ could give the Impala a sexier wash than _Dean Winchester_ , thank you very much. Not even soapy titties pressed up against the hood looked as good and he knew it.

He was just finishing up the second coat of wax, and he never, ever tired of going through the whole process of cleaning his baby. Sam often made fun of him for “fondling” her instead of washing, but what did he know, the bitch? And besides, it wasn’t like he was around right now to make his smartass little comments, anyway. He and Bobby had gone into town to run some errands, which had left Dean all alone with only his one true love for company. As such, he’d decided to treat her right and give her the works and have some serious alone time with her.

Of course, he absolutely refused to acknowledge that that was actually bullshit. He was so not alone right now. _He_ was here, too.

Dean’s motions on the trunk of the car faltered for a moment before he started them right back up with renewed ferocity.

Those sons of bitches—they hadn’t even told him they were leaving, and hadn’t mentioned when they’d be back, either. He’d woken up from a nice nap to find an insipid note on the kitchen table that was vague and unhelpful, but no sooner had he finished reading it when he heard the banging noise in the basement that preceded the sound of the washing machine starting, and _fuck_ what it looked like, he’d _bolted_. In fact, he’d almost gotten into the Impala and driven off at top speed to Anywhere Cas Wasn’t, USA, but he’d stopped short with his fingers on the door handle. He’d calmed himself down, taking deep breaths—no, he couldn’t…fuck, he couldn’t leave Cas here all by himself. He was barely three months into his new skin and loved to time his screw-ups when there was nobody around so he could make it _really_ bad. Bobby would kill him if he came home and found the kitchen flooded again because some strange force had possessed Cas to unscrew the pipes under the sink (no, he still didn’t buy Cas’s “I was trying to unclog it” excuse, because they’d already told him how to use the disposal). Never mind that it would be Cas’s fault, oh no, _Dean_ would get yelled at because Bobby hadn’t angel-proofed the house, just like the _last_ time.

So he’d stayed. He’d not wanted to— _at all_ —but he’d stayed to friggin’ _baby-sit_.

_Fuck those two!_ They’d done it on purpose, he just _knew_ it!

Well, he’d _baby-sit_ the ex-angel so far as stitching him up if he sliced his hand open on a kitchen knife while doing the dishes, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna just go sit with him inside. He _refused_. Of course, that had its downsides—he couldn’t go inside for a beer or the bathroom, and while pissing outside was fine, he _seriously_ needed a drink that wasn’t water from the hose, and dammit, of course he’d get hungry while they were gone. But he was not going in there—not if there was a chance he’d see Cas. Having to be around him with Bobby and Sam around was one thing, but…

Shit. This was the first time he’d ever been alone with him at Bobby’s since…

Out of frustration and boredom and to take his mind off of the whole situation, he’d decided to give the Impala a bath. A _real_ bath—wash, compound, wax, and detailing—not just a perfunctory soap and rinse. And really, it had turned out to be a good idea—she’d been in need of it, and bad. He kept her in tune, of course, but he hadn’t really touched her up and washed her in a while, so now she shone like she had just rolled off the assembly line, and he couldn’t wait to hear her purr in gratitude the next time he started her up for a drive.

Prettifying the car had taken a good long while, though, and Bobby and Sam _still_ weren’t back. What the fuck were they _doing_? Dean wanted to go get something to eat, dammit. He’d left his cell phone in on the kitchen table, too, so he couldn’t call them and tell them to get their asses back here and bring him something tasty while they were at it.

So help him, if they were—if they were doing this _on purpose_ —to—

Yes, the sound of the garage door opening _would_ happen right as he had that thought, wouldn’t it?

“Dean?”

Dean’s stomach plummeted at the same time as blood slammed into his face, his hands tight on the rag he was holding. He couldn’t seem to move. _Fuck. Fuck! What did_ he _want—?_

“Sam wants to know if you need anything from town, and what you would like for dinner.”

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he swallowed hard and then forced himself to turn around and face Cas.

There he was, standing in the doorway, the phone to his ear. Dean blinked a little, still not used to seeing him in worn jeans and t-shirts instead of his angelic monkey suit—probably because he’d been making it a point to not see him at all the past three months. Cas was staring at him, inquisitive and patient, and Dean finally shook himself and replied to the rag in his hand, “Yeah. Uh—yeah. I don’t—know. Can’t think of anything I, uh, need right now. Maybe more oil for the car. Food—Chinese, maybe? Yeah. Kung pao sounds good. Tell them to bring back some cherry pie, too. And more beer.”

He felt like an idiot, stumbling over his words like that and twisting the dirty cloth in his hand, but Cas just rattled back his reply, and Dean couldn’t help but be appreciative that Cas insisted twice on the pie (and he was gonna kick Sam’s ass for trying to weasel out of bringing any home). Then he heard him hang up, and waited for the sound of the door closing so he could go back to what he was doing—

Only it didn’t. In fact, he didn’t hear anything—no sound of the door closing, no sound of Cas moving, just horrible ringing silence. And the worst part was that he could _feel_ eyes on him. That bastard was staring at him.

Nope—he wasn’t. A stealthy glance behind him proved that. No, Cas was _looking_ at him. Goddammit, he—he _knew_ he couldn’t stand that. And he was doing when they—when nobody was around! Not that he wanted Cas do that in front of other people either, because that—he didn’t want him to _look_ at him at all!

Dean heard the door suddenly shut, and for a single second he was relieved, but that didn’t last—because he immediately heard a little shuffle and _shit fire sonofabitch_ , he wasn’t leaving.

What the hell did he _want_?! Why was he coming out here?! He’d answered his questions already—didn’t he have a floor to mop or something?! He knew about the ridiculous and ever-growing list of chores that Bobby had set Cas to—there was no way he was done. Why, why, _why_ did he have to come out and bother him when there was no one here?!

He glared over his shoulder, giving Cas a sour look, but he couldn’t hold it for long, not with those big shiny sheep’s eyes looking back. Oh, this wasn’t awkward or anything. _Thanks a lot, Sam, Bobby—I really appreciate this, you guys leaving me behind with_ him _while you go off and have fun._

Because the silence was awful, Dean coughed and muttered, “You—you need help with something in the house?”

“No.”

_Then what, you come out here to stare at me? Go back inside_ , was the first thing that popped into his head to say next, but he bit down on it. He was—he was not gonna do that. He’d had…minimal interaction with Cas for three months now, he could—he could handle—whatever the fuck this was.

Though if he came out here because—if he—he _would_ tear his head off. Just see if he wouldn’t.

Raising his eyes skyward for a moment, he finally sacked up and turned around to face him. Cas still had his eyes on him, blinking solemnly, and unlike Dean, he didn’t look like he was about to shrivel up from how awkward this was. Of course he didn’t—he _loved_ making things awkward, so why would he be skittish and embarrassed at a time like this? He was probably turning handsprings inside because praise Jesus hallelujah, he’d once again made Dean wanna curl up and die—and with hardly any effort at all!

‘Course, this might not be as bad if he just knew what Cas _wanted_. Unfortunately, Cas didn’t seem in any hurry to _tell_ him, so for all Dean knew he’d come out here just to make him uncomfortable, or was hoping—

_I will tear his fucking head off, so help me God…_

So wrapped up in his fantasies of killing Cas as he was, Dean was a bit startled when he spoke again.

“Did you sleep well?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded forcefully, blinking rapidly as he threw his rag over by the bucket full of soapy water. “Yeah,” he grunted. He shoved his hands in his pockets, not caring that they were still dirty. Why the hell was Cas asking if _he’d_ slept well when Cas was pretty much not sleeping at _all_? The horrible dark circles under his eyes were enough to tell _anybody_ that Cas was running on fumes and had been for the past three months.

He was looking everywhere but at Cas, trying to think of some polite way to tell him to get out of the goddamn garage and go back inside, or failing that he could just try a rude way, when he noticed the way Cas was twisting his hands together. At first he thought the idiot was wringing his hands in concern or some shit, but a closer look revealed he was fussing at the bandage he had wrapped around his palm.

“Quit messing with that, dammit,” Dean growled, and Cas rather sullenly dropped his hands, looking mutinous like he always did when Dean or anyone else told him to stop pulling at bandages or picking at scabs. Well, Cas could deal—Dean was particularly serious about that one.

While Dean and his brother headed out on jobs now, slowly getting back in the groove of hunting after the Epic Showdown they’d had with Cas when he’d been higher than a kite and twice as crazy, Bobby had stayed home with Cas and had been trying to show him the ropes. He’d taught him chores first, of course—Cas was pretty much his friggin’ maid service now, doing laundry and washing floors (though he had poured bleach into a load of darks once; that had been a disaster). But last month, seeing as Cas showed no signs of getting the same wandering bug that all three of them got once _they_ took the Mark (and that Sam and Dean _still_ had, just that _itch_ that made them have to up and leave all the time), they figured he was there to stay, so Bobby had started teaching him the how-to’s of hunting, human style. And a few days ago, he’d tried to teach him to make silver bullets.

Cas wasn’t stupid (except how he was). It was just…well, Dean had hardly ever seen him do much to avoid physical harm back when he’d been a real live holy roller. Dean himself had shot him repeatedly with rock salt and stabbed him with a knife the first time he’d met him and he hadn’t made any effort at all to stop him, and he got the impression that he only stopped Bobby from hitting him upside the head with a crowbar because he was tired of playing and wanted to get serious. He’d not _needed_ to worry about it, Dean guessed, because he could just fix it later. It obviously didn’t _hurt_ him like it hurt humans.

Yeah—that wasn’t the case anymore. And it was apparently taking a while to get used to. He and Sam had come home that day to find Bobby talking a panicking Cas down, making him hold his hand under a steady stream of water from the sink, because the dipshit had skipped the tongs and just grabbed the crucible they’d used to melt the silver with his bare hand. Cue mayhem.

They’d used some bags of frozen vegetables wrapped in towels on his palm and fingers after that, and then had salved and bandaged him up and all three of them—well, Sam and Bobby had, Dean had stayed standing on the other side of the room—had sat him down and explained _again_ that they knew it was a hard habit to break after not really caring much about abusing his vessel because hey, he could just fix it, but he couldn’t _do_ that anymore, and if he kept being so careless then one day he was gonna fuck himself up _permanently_. Dean couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor bastard at the sight of his shaken expression, compounded by the fact that he was obviously still in a lot of pain, but dammit, he needed to learn.

And now, looking at him standing there in front of him, his hand not only bandaged but covered with a myriad of other scabs and half-healed cuts and scrapes he’d earned just because he didn’t _think_ about things like that…

Fuck.

“You—wanna just—stay out here, then? Sit down?” he managed, and he didn’t miss how Cas seemed to brighten a little. He was glancing around for a crate or something to pull up when Dean coughed and waved a vague hand at him, hating how the back of his neck was turning red as he didn’t so much walk as slink to one side of the Impala. When he saw that Cas was just shuffling his feet in the same spot and looking unsure, he waved again, impatiently this time, at the other side of the car as he swung open the back door, flopping down into the seat with a heavy sigh. Now he _really_ wanted a beer—but at the same time he didn’t, feeling his neck heat up _again_ as Cas finally wandered over and slid inside the car next to him, thankfully keeping his distance.

Jesus. This was horrible—why had he even done this? Well, because Cas was pathetic, that was why, sitting there all scabby and shit. Goddammit. Realizing that Cas had been doing chores all day and had probably been picking at his bandage the whole time, he sat up straighter and snapped his fingers at him. “Lemme see your hand,” he demanded gruffly.

Cas was clearly reluctant to let Dean touch his injury, whether it be because he was afraid of him being rough with it or because Dean was gonna see he’d screwed up his bandages _again_ and they’d need changing and he’d get yelled again just like when Bobby’d shouted at him when he’d ruined the bandages on his brand that he’d only needed to wear for a _day_ , but he slowly stretched his arm out and let Dean have his hand anyway. Dean gripped his wrist, pulling him a little closer, and eyed the white strips of gauze.

They were fine—so they could be put back on once he was done checking out the burn under it. He carefully peeled them back, squinting a little at the red, puffy, blistered skin beneath. Dean still marveled at how he’d managed to hold onto that thing long enough to have that burn get this bad—or maybe he’d just turned off the fire and grabbed it the second the flame was gone. Who knew? It was ugly, but he could tell it’d get better eventually—so long as the twit next to him stopped _messing_ with it.

“Seriously—quit fucking with it,” he ordered, wrapping it back up. “It’s not gonna heal any faster if you keep poking it. You want it to get infected?”

“No,” Cas muttered. “But—”

“Don’t you ‘but’ me,” Dean interrupted. “You do that all the time—you think I don’t know you always peel your scabs off, too? That isn’t the first bad injury you’re gonna get, and probably isn’t even the worst one you’ll ever have. Who knows what’s gonna happen down the line? And you just gotta learn to leave them the hell alone, I don’t care how much they hurt or itch.”

Dean huffed when Cas started up that combo of shame and sulking he was prone to—any time he got scolded in the days right after his permanent downgrade, no matter how minor it was, he seemed to think he’d just committed a serious crime and was probably two seconds away from offering to go jump off a cliff to pay for his sins. But after three months, he was starting to just get pissy about it—he suspected Cas’s self-flagellation for the tiniest of mistakes would soon stop altogether and they’d be stuck with a pouter for the rest of their lives. Dumbass.

Suddenly realizing he was still holding Cas’s wrist, he quickly let him go and scooched further away, scratching at his knee and staring determinedly ahead for a moment. But he could not take that awkward silence, so he swallowed and started up again. “So—how—are you? I mean, have been. How have you been? You—doin’ okay?” Christ, he was babbling. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I’m all right,” Cas replied quietly. “The allergy medication Bobby gave me has helped a great deal.”

“Just like Sam told you it would—looks like you and pollen don’t get along. You need to stop thinkin’ you have the plague every time you get a runny nose, dude.”

“I didn’t think it was _plague_ , Dean,” Cas replied tersely. “I just…I don’t like—not knowing what is wrong with this body.”

Dean was opening his mouth to tell him to stop whining about that because not knowing what was wrong with you sometimes when you were sick was a fact of life when Cas quietly added, “And not being able to fix it.”

_Dammit._ Dean hated it when Cas got maudlin over his demotion, because it was horrible—there was absolutely nothing Dean could do or say to make him feel better about it. _Nobody_ could make him feel better about it because none of them could relate to it. What the fuck could they _possibly_ say? Particularly since the things he was angsting about were the kind of things that they just took for granted. The stupid bastard needed to stop dwelling on it, because it wasn’t helping matters—for any of them.

He sneaked a glance over at Cas, watching him surreptitiously as he rubbed his finger over a scabby scratch on his knuckle, and Dean _hated_ the way he was looking at it, like he was trying to _will_ it to heal itself—and just sitting there getting more and more depressed because it stayed exactly like it was, just like every other wound he had, no matter how tiny. He knew how this was gonna go. Cas would sit there and stare, and he’d _keep_ staring and eventually he’d just…kind of shut down and sit there looking off into nothing, his gaze unfocused and his expression gloomy and miserable—or worse, he’d—he start _crying_ , and he wouldn’t even know he was doing it.

An ex-angel with depression—yeah, that was exactly what the world needed. It was hard enough getting some contraband painkillers that were really _painkillers_ and not just heroine and cocaine smashed together; now they were gonna have to go out and find some black market Zoloft for Cas.

Dean could not take this—he had to say something to distract him and get him talking again, preferably about something that was not related to how he was only human now. Only problem was he didn’t know _what_ to say. Any time Cas got in a funk when he was around them, Sam or Bobby were the ones to take care of it. Bobby would sometimes just abruptly stand up and tell Cas to get his ass in the library because they were gonna dust and reorganize F through H, or Sam would just start making idle chit-chat with him and ask him stupid questions about how he was feeling and if he needed any more clothes and even sat there and made a grocery list with him because he wanted to start teaching him how to cook.

Bobby’d pitch a fit if Dean tried to reorganize his library to snap Cas out of it, he’d already asked how Cas was doing, and there was no way in hell he was gonna go prance around the kitchen with him. That left him with what? Uncomfortable silence in the back of the Impala, that’s what. No, that left him with _Cas_ in the back of the Impala. _Sonofabitch._

Dean honestly could not think of a single thing to say to him. Hell, for three weeks he’d not said two words to him after— _that_ , avoiding him and all but running out of the house when he came downstairs in the morning. He just—he just could not be around Cas, _especially_ with other people who friggin’ _knew_ too much watching him. He couldn’t take it. But he’d…finally settled down enough to be able to be in the same room as Cas—usually on the exact opposite side of the room as Cas—even if he still avoided talking to him. Or looking at him. But now…

He still had no fucking clue what to think of what had happened that night other than _Jesus God fuck no_. He didn’t know why he’d done it and didn’t know…what Cas thought of what had happened. Shit, he didn’t—he didn’t even—he didn’t even know how he _felt_ about this now! About—about _him_ , about—god _dammit_!

Dean knew one thing for sure—he’d not had a _single_ desire to touch Cas in _any way_ since that had happened. He’d made fucking _sure_ of that. Of course, that didn’t solve any problems; it just created new ones because now all he could do was wonder how the hell it had happened in the first place, then. Had he—had _they_ just gotten…Jesus… _carried away_ , or something? Dean got carried away in bed—but with fucking _women_ , and the thought that he could get carried away with a—a _dude_ —no. The only thing he had in this whatever-it-was that wasn’t a complete fucking mess was Sam—what he had said in that sure and confident snotty Sam Winchester way.

_You like pussy. And you like Cas._

That was just it, though, wasn’t it? _Did he?_ Sam thought he did because Sam was a prick and assumed he knew best in all things. But—

A heavy sigh next to him snapped him out of his circular and agitated musings, and he glanced over to see that yep, just as he thought—Cas was starting to power down, and he looked about as sad as a bunch of kids watching their orphanage burn down after it had been announced that Santa Claus wasn’t real. And seeing Cas miserable and unhappy— _fuck._ There it was. He felt it—he felt that horrible and _familiar_ twist in his gut and pang in his chest seeing the little bastard that miserable, because he was damned good at _looking_ miserable.

He felt stupid, inept, and horribly embarrassed, but it was like he couldn’t stop himself. He stretched deliberately, pressing his palms against the roof of the car, and like some gawky teenager on a date at the movies slung his arm along the top of the backseat, dangling his fingers down just enough so that his hand brushed against Cas’s shoulder.

Just like that, Cas looked up, his eyes bright and suddenly _hopeful_ , and Dean only had a second of alarm before he— _what the fuck, was he trying to lean on him—?!_

“What the hell, Cas?!” Dean barked, shoving him back over and _off of him_ , thank you very much! “Don’t you sit on me!”

Dean nearly growled when the crushed-puppy look came on in full force and he just kind of slumped against the door, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Fucking _hell_ , Dean hated the world right now. He hated Sam and Bobby the most, though, because if it hadn’t been for them, _this would not be happening_. He didn’t _want_ to be in the back of the car with a guy who was currently making Trent Reznor look perky, and he wouldn’t be feeling like a dick because he had the nerve not to want Cas to friggin’ lay down on top of him! And he—he wouldn’t be feeling— _that_ —

_Sonofa_ bitch _!_

He rubbed fiercely at the back of his neck, grinding his teeth. Dammit. He’d wanted to make Cas snap out of his depression but here he’d gone and made it worse. No, _Cas_ had made it worse because—but he just didn’t _know_ rules of etiquette—

Dean _really_ hated the world.

“Cas,” he said tiredly, looking over at him again, and while he still didn’t know what he was going to say before Cas turned to face him, he had _no_ chance of figuring that out when he saw that he looked about ten times worse than he had _before_ Dean had had the brilliant idea to put a fucking arm around him, and he felt his heart clench and he just wanted Cas to _stop that_ , because his life did not suck nearly as bad as he thought it did, but—

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and he shifted a little, facing him more, sliding his hand back onto the top of the seat and gripping the leather tightly.

_It’s just Cas._

Yeah. It was Cas. And right now Cas apparently thought he hated him and was staring at him with the same glum expression he had every time he’d looked at Dean in the past three months. Jesus Christ—what if—what if he’d been…thinking that this whole time…now Dean was feeling _really_ unpleasant. Add on the branding incident, where Dean had just jammed the hot iron on him and then left—dammit, he’d left because—he hadn’t just done it and run because he didn’t care, he’d felt—it’d almost hurt _him_ , and he’d just needed to get _away_ from Cas screaming because that _feeling_ had been there, chasing him all the way outside even as he’d slammed the door on Cas wailing for _him_ —he didn’t fucking hate Cas, dammit! But he shouldn’t have to—have to fucking _show it_ like this!

_Cas. Just Cas._

_Shut_ up _, Sam Voice_ , he grumbled to himself as he took a breath and steeled himself, and then slid his arm down again, careful to avoid his still-tender brand, and not just lightly touching Cas’s shoulder with his fingers this time but letting his whole arm wrap around his shoulders and—why, _why_ was he doing this?!—pulling him closer.

Despite his pathetic slump, Dean could feel that somehow Cas was still tense, too, obviously afraid to move in case Dean decided to throw him off again, which made Dean scowl. Why did Cas think it was necessary to try and make him feel worse for his _completely justified_ reaction? But feel bad he did, because the more he thought on it, the more he knew what the past three months probably looked like to Cas, even though they _weren’t_ , but Cas was a _moron_ —

Moron or no, Dean was disgruntled to find that he wanted to make Cas see that they were…okay. In the _broadest_ sense of the word, though, because this—all of this—was still messed up. It was messed up because, if he was—going to be at all honest, that…wasn’t all he wanted to find out.

Dean felt embarrassed and weird and all kinds of other horrible shit with his arm around Cas like this. But…was it because all he could think about—that time—or because—

Life _sucked_. Why couldn’t things be easier? Why did—why _Cas_?

Dean again looked furtively at him out of the corner of his eye. There was a spot on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving—again—that he could see despite the stubble already coming in. His hair was a mess, but that at least was something that human Cas had in common with angel Cas, and it showed no signs of changing. His lips were chapped because he was picky about ChapStick and was such a damn child about using it that they had to give him _flavored_ shit just to get him to wear it, but even so, it only worked half the time. His shirt was just a plain dark grey tee, and Dean could see him pulling at some straggly threads in a tiny hole in the knee of his jeans—apparently, he just had to pick at _something_.

Maybe…something…something small. Not—not like before. Not happening, not happening _ever_. But he could—if, against everything in his person and the universe, and against everything he’d been trying to _tell_ himself for the past three months—he _liked_ Cas…he wanted to know for sure, goddammit. So. Small. Something…

_Seriously, Winchester? You sitting there pondering_ kissing _that_ dude _?_

He twitched, and he felt Cas tense a little before he realized the motion had made him squeeze him tighter. _Fuck._ But that was the least of his worries—because that had been entirely accurate. He _had_ pondered it. And—was still pondering it. _‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy._

After he managed to keep from twitching again, he turned a little more in Cas’s direction, painfully aware of the arm he had around him and having absolutely no clue what to do. He was too freaked out to find this situation remotely amusing, him having someone in the backseat of the car and not knowing how to proceed. But that was because all other times he paid his two-hundred bucks to pass GO back here he was doing it to get _laid_ , and this was _Cas_ —

Yeah, couldn’t stop the cringing twitch that time, and Cas noticed, looking up at him, confusion breaking through his self-pity so he could stare at Dean with furrowed brows. He was way too close—their faces were less than a foot apart, for Christ’s sake! But that was the whole point, right? Can’t very well…try this out if they’re on opposite sides of the seat. But he didn’t _wanna_ try it out! Hell, he didn’t even know if _Cas_ wanted to try it out!

Shit. Yes, he did—he hadn’t forgotten that. He knew Cas…kinda had a thing for him _that way_. He’d _admitted_ it—that night. But did he—wanna do that _now_? Because Dean didn’t.

_If you don’t, why are you trying to work up the nerve?_

_Because I’m talking about a hypothetical situation, goddammit!_ he snarled back.

_So…you’re going to conduct a little experiment with Cas in the backseat of the Impala._

…Fuck his life.

Cas’s confusion was starting to become concern, so God knew what Dean looked like right now—probably like a slack-jawed idiot. He was aware that his hand was tight on Cas’s shoulder, but he couldn’t do anything to relax it. Dean cleared his throat, fidgeting, and sweet Jesus, he hadn’t even been this awkward the first time he’d ever second-based a girl when he was fifteen. Well, that was because he was smooth with ladies and always would be—he didn’t second-base fucking _dudes_ , because they had nothing to fucking second-base!

_Made it to third, though._

Okay. That was not helping.

He forced his free hand to move, but it detoured about halfway so he could scrub it across his face, staring out the back windshield now.

“Dean? Is something—?”

“ _No_ ,” Dean ground out through his teeth. “It’s—fine.” That was a lie and he knew it. This was not fine. What he was trying to do was so not fine. But a glance back at Cas and _fuckballs_ , he was looking _dejected_ again and clearly thought he was doing something Bad because he _still_ assumed everything was his fault, even though he sometimes just pouted about it instead of beating his breast—

That got Dean moving again. His free hand moved, but didn’t seem to have much direction so he wound up just grabbing Cas’s upper arm. Oh, marvelous—how he had both of his arms around him. Cas stared at his hand for a moment before looking back up at him, blinking rapidly. _Cas, do not talk_ , Dean thought furiously at him, the creaking leather loud in the silence as he twisted further, pulling Cas as he did so they were facing each other more, and Cas just went with it, looking confused and concerned and—was there _any_ understanding coming through here at all?! Did he have _any_ idea what Dean was trying to do?!

For a second, Dean considered giving Cas a high-sign, maybe outright _telling_ him what—what he—did not want to try but was gonna anyway…but to put the intentions into actual words was impossible. So he gave up and just did it.

He slid his arm from around Cas’s shoulders so that he had a hand at the back of his neck to tilt his head at the right angle, and right before he squeezed his eyes shut, he saw something that might have been dawning realization in Cas’s expression, but it was brief. And then Dean saw nothing as he more or less charged Cas and just—

Just fucking planted one on him.

It was light and brief, and he sure as hell didn’t open his mouth. Cas didn’t move at first, but as Dean pulled back in horror— _fuck, he’d just kissed Cas_ and Cas hadn’t even moved and horror that he’d just _kissed a guy_ , he’d felt—he’d felt the beginning of a delayed-reaction response to it, his lips moving under Dean’s to try and kiss back, oh _shit_ —

Once he got a good distance back from Cas he opened his eyes again, feeling—he didn’t even know. But he saw Cas, staring back at him, his eyes huge and bright and his face just—he was just all shock and awe and God knew what else, and you’d think he _hadn’t_ just been wallowing in misery ten seconds ago, and that tiny, sensible Sam Voice spoke up, and he realized just that—all it had taken was one thing to make Cas forget he’d even been unhappy, and Dean felt—felt what he’d felt _before_ —

_Oh goddammit, Cas!_

He had no warning when Cas suddenly leaned forward again. No, that was not an accurate description—Cas _jumped_ forward, flinging himself at Dean and throwing his arms around his middle and trying to kiss him again and _fuck fuck fuck get him_ off _—_

“ _Stop it!_ ” Dean shouted, grabbing Cas tightly by the shoulders and flinging him back on his side of the car while he himself scrambled backwards until he was pressed up against the door on his own side. “What the _fuck_ , Cas?!”

Oh, great—that was exactly what he needed to see to make this whole fucked-up situation even more disturbing: there was none of that panicky “oh good heavens, I just forgot myself” look Dean had seen on his face before, meaning that was _all_ Cas that just happened. Just what the hell gave him the idea that that was okay?!

Cas was trying to right himself from where he’d gone sprawling, looking ten different kinds of ashamed and unhappy now—Jesus Christ, he had the worst mood swings in the world. “Dean—I—I’m sorry, I—”

“No, don’t you _dare_ tell me you—you fucking lost control again,” Dean hissed.

Cas shook his head slowly, finally sitting up properly now. “No—I didn’t mean—”

“Okay, you know what? Fuck it. I don’t want to hear any of your excuses or anything like that. I just want you to listen to _me_ now,” Dean cut him off. “And rule one is—is quit fucking _jumping_ on me like that, goddammit! You—just calm down, would you?! Why are you so fucking _horny_?!”

Cas looked up at him, sad-face on in full now, and Dean wanted to smack him upside the head for it. “I don’t have horns, Dean,” he said patiently, but continued before Dean could even think to roll his eyes at _that_ response. “I just…” He licked his lips a little, trying to gather his thoughts. “I just thought you were no longer angry with me, and…”

_Oh, fuck you._

“Cas, shut up,” Dean said flatly, and he did. “I’m—I _told_ you, _three months ago_ , that—that I wasn’t mad at you. I just…need some space and some time to—to get _used_ to shit. I _told_ you that, dammit. You forget or something?”

“No,” Cas replied quietly. “But…you’ve been avoiding me all this time.”

_Fuck you_ hard _, you shithead._

“Because I’m _trying to figure things out_ , Cas,” Dean ground out. “It just doesn’t—happen in a day, and—and Sam and I have been hunting, and you’ve—and I’m here now, aren’t I?! We’re talking! And don’t say I haven’t talked to you or seen you in three months, we’ve—”

There went the up-turned sheep’s eyes, and Dean wanted to sock him in the jaw, but he knew now _exactly_ what the Magic Mood Lifter was, and he was horrified to realize that there was a tiny part of him telling him to do it just to make Cas stop wallowing in his own misery, and that was the same part that turned a lazy circle in his midsection and did nothing but think proudly, smugly, and _happily_ that only he, Dean Winchester, could do that.

He supposed it was that little wriggle in his gut that did it in the end—he didn’t know much about what he—was _feeling_ for—for _Cas_ , but he did know _that_ feeling. _Shit._

“Okay. Cas, just—do _not_ —attack me. Just—stay _still_ , for fuck’s sake,” he growled, unable to believe that he was seriously about to _try this again_.

But he was. He was slowly sliding down from where he’d still been tucked up against the door, trying to figure out the best way to pull Cas over so he could—could friggin’—

Cas wasn’t helping, of course. He was sitting completely still because Dean told him to, just watching as Dean floundered next to him, the bitch. But he was _watching_ him, his hands on his knees, somehow managing a perfect blend of maudlin, pouty, and _hopeful_ , because it was like now that he had a full range of human emotions he liked to toss them in his mental blender and hit frappé just to see what he would come out. He needed to stop it, dammit.

Dean got his arm back around Cas’s shoulders, and though he seriously didn’t want to, he just charged again, knowing hesitating would just make things a million times worse, gripping Cas’s upper arm again as he shut his eyes and—Jesus Christ, he was kissing Cas. And Cas was kissing him back. Yep, he could feel the way his lips were moving under his own, trying to _copy_ him, even though he was all hesitant and _shy_ —

He had to stop. It was too much again, Cas kissing him back, the sick feeling churning in his stomach at war with the little warm one sparking in his chest, and the fact that he had just put his mouth all over another guy’s. _Definitely_ too much. He pulled back, taking a few shaky breaths, and opened his eyes.

Cas had his shut. His lips were parted a little as he just sat there, motionless and breathing shallowly, but then his eyes were suddenly open and Dean just saw _that fucking look_ , not a trace of misery in those big blue eyes again, just—just that _look_ , and it was right there in front of him, so damn _close_ —

He shut his eyes and leaned forward just so he wouldn’t have to _see_ that anymore.

This was so weird. It wasn’t just weird—it was _sick_. He was kissing a guy. _Kissing_ a _guy_. It wasn’t even good kissing. In fact, it was downright awful kissing, and not just because it _was_ a guy. But the only way to make it not bad kissing was to—get _into_ it, but to get into it would be getting into it _with a guy_.

He broke off, keeping his eyes closed, though, but he didn’t pull back, just turned away with his cheek still close enough to Cas’s that he could feel the heat of him, struggling to make—make fucking _everything_ settle down. Cas didn’t help that, either, because he could feel his breath skating across his skin and blowing in his ear, and Dean had barely done anything at all but Cas was still all tremble-breathing, and he felt him lean, just a little, to press his cheek against his own.

That was not acceptable because Cas hadn’t shaved today and was like friggin’ sandpaper. Dean jerked away, pulling his head back to scowl at Cas and his scruffy chin, and there was that _look_ , still there in full, and just getting _worse_ now. He saw Cas’s gaze drop a little, and his own scowl deepened when he realized Cas was looking at his mouth. _Don’t you dare get ideas—_ I’m _the carnie running this ride, you bastard._

But Cas didn’t move, just stared at his mouth for a bit before his eyes returned to Dean, _gazing_ at him and shit, and once more Dean leaned forward so he couldn’t see it.

Okay. This—this wasn’t…too bad. He knew things were only worse because he was on edge, just waiting for Cas to go batshit again like _last_ time, but Cas didn’t, just leaning backwards a bit, slanting his head so that his mouth was in just the right place. Goddammit. He wasn’t doing much moving other than the occasional tilt of his head as he kissed back. Really, the whole thing would be pretty damned nice if Dean didn’t keep feeling that stupid fucking _stubble_ scrape against his chin all the time. And if he wasn’t kissing a man.

He had to stop again but didn’t move away, his nose bumping Cas’s, and he refused to look at him. He knew Cas would be _looking_ at him if he opened his eyes and he just…didn’t need that right now.

Dean stiffened when he felt Cas move, and it only got worse when he felt a tentative hand suddenly curl gently around his side. He froze; Cas’s hand felt burning hot thought his T-shirt, and he just waited edgily for whatever shit Cas was going to pull now. He went rigid when his hand began to move, sliding upward—he was fucking _petting_ him, the little shit, what the hell? But then his hand paused in the middle of his chest, and then he was suddenly pressing his palm against him, right on his breastbone. Dean couldn’t help it—he opened his eyes and he looked, eyeing Cas warily. What—was he trying to push him _off_ , or something? No, he wasn’t. He just…was putting his hands on him. Okay, fine, _hand_ , but Dean never said he could do that. Unfortunately, he knew Cas would spiral right back down into despair if Dean dared tell him to keep his hands to himself, so he…didn’t slap his hand away, and besides—it was just…on his ribs. He could…he could deal with that. His shirt was between Cas’s hand and his skin. This was tolerable. No, it wasn’t, but he could pretend it was.

So of course that would be when Cas would decide to close his eyes and move forward, his motions still tentative and unsure as he softly pressed his lips against Dean’s again.

It took everything he had to not chuck him across the seat again. Dean was completely frozen, staring down at him, just _waiting_ for the little bastard to freak out again like before, and if he did he was gonna get a split lip for his troubles. But he didn’t freak out, just kissed him in that timid, maddening way of his, and there was a short pause where Dean could practically hear the gears in Cas’s brain working, trying to figure out if what he’d done was okay, and then he was being kissed again.

_Just—just relax, Winchester. He’s not…this is fine. It’s fine._ He hated that he kept saying that to himself, because it _wasn’t_ fine. He was in the back seat of the Impala _kissing Cas_. What part of that was fine? Dean couldn’t think of anything. Especially not how that damned shy act that he knew was just uncertainty and inexperience kept making him feel weird. Dean couldn’t even move to do anything, because Cas wouldn’t _stop_. He’d kiss him, then he’d kiss him again, just gentle little pecks, every single one soft and decidedly chaste, his fingers flexing a little against where he had them against Dean’s chest.

The hand on his chest started creeping upwards and Cas finally stopped kissing him when his hand was pressed against his throat, his eyes still shut. As he leaned his forehead against Dean’s, Dean couldn’t help but see how…how fucking _content_ he looked, looking more peaceful and happy with things than he had since—since that one time. Shit—his stupid traitor stomach did it _again_ , that vague warmth in his chest and those little flutters in his gut that he was the one to do it…and that Cas was so damned happy for once…

As usual, that was what got him moving again, the combination of Cas’s stupid happy look and his own stupid—whatever, and Cas sighed when Dean reached up and cupped his chin, but that was mistake because he was so friggin’ scruffy. But Cas just leaned into his hand and ruined the chance of getting his palm away from stubble, not to mention forcibly reminding him that he was with a _dude_ back here.

Cas’s eyes opened, staring at him in that way only Cas could do, and it made Dean uncomfortable in ways only Cas could manage. Dean tensed, on edge and ready to sock him as he suddenly moved, shifting closer, but all he did was lean forward and rest his head against Dean’s shoulder, turned so that Dean could feel tiny breaths puffing against the skin of his neck almost in time with how Cas’s thumb was stroking the other side. That was something that sucked about Cas being human—he was so goddamned _emotional_ sometimes. Dean knew he was new to it and all, but why did he have to do it around _him_?! Couldn’t he just go up to his room and read a romance novel _by himself_ or something?! Why did he have to—to get all _cuddly_?! With _him_?!

He really didn’t know how long Cas sat there like that, still and calm and relaxed while Dean was trying to figure out increasingly ridiculous ways to get Cas to _get off of him_ , but then Cas moved again and Dean _tensed_ again when felt lips pressed against his jaw. Cas’s creeping hand crept again, this time mimicking what Dean was doing to him and pressing against his cheek, and goddammit, it felt like Cas was trying to turn his head. Yep, definitely turning him, and Dean was _being_ turned, and it was right back to kissing. And here Dean thought they were done doing that.

But it was only one long soft one this time, and even though Cas stopped, he barely pulled away, his lips still touching Dean’s as his thumb stroked his cheek, and Dean was two seconds away from calling it a day when Cas whispered—no, _breathed_ it, just one word: “ _Dean…_ ”

He heard it, yeah, but he _felt_ it too, right there against his mouth, and…and it was just like before. He’d never heard his name said like that, so full of—he didn’t even know. But the way Cas _said_ it wasn’t the only thing that was just like before—it hit him just like before too, right in the gut and the chest, and the next thing Dean knew he’d wound his fingers into Cas’s hair and was kissing him again, tilting his head back to angle him just right, and the sigh Cas gave as he leaned into it didn’t do anything to help Dean’s situation.

Keeping his eyes closed did help, though—well, it didn’t help the “kind of starting to get into this” situation. In fact, it did the opposite, because it _did_ help the “kissing a dude” situation—because he _was_ kind of starting to get into this. He didn’t think about the dude thing, just felt the soft hair against his hand and the lips beneath his own and the warm little body next to his. He avoided the stubble and just felt… _Cas._

Dean was not so distracted that he tried anything open-mouthed. No, not after the last time—he was so not bringing any kind of tongue into play here. _Not happening._ Magic might happen in the back of his car, but getting assaulted by an ex-angel was not magical and never would be. So he kissed him, but he kept it…shallow. Kept it simple, kept it slow, and kept one hand gently stroking Cas’s neck so he could choke a bitch if he got out of control. He didn’t touch him too high, because too high meant scratchy, patchy beard. But Dean found that he wasn’t all that happy stroking too low, either, because he suddenly realized that the tips of his fingers had just slipped underneath the collar of Cas’s shirt. Disgruntled, he pulled back and pressed his palm against safer ground, feeling Cas’s pulse beating relatively easy.

Cas suddenly just pulled back, and Dean opened his eyes when Cas just moved forward again and pressed his face against Dean’s neck, curling closer to him. Dean froze, tense and trying to figure out what to do and about to give Cas a good whack to the head if he was trying to kiss his neck—but then Dean realized he wasn’t moving, wasn’t kissing, wasn’t doing anything. He was just…sitting on him, his breath hot against the skin of his throat, one hand still pressed against his ribs and the other clinging gently at the shoulder of his shirt.

_Okay. Okay—just—do something with your arms._ Awkwardly, Dean managed to get an arm up under Cas’s, who shifted a bit to accommodate him, and after that he slid the other around his shoulders, which turned out to be a mistake because that just made Cas move closer—and if he got any closer, he’d be in his fucking _lap_. However, Cas made no move to try and crawl on him, even if he did move his arm to wrap tightly around Dean’s shoulders. In fact, he seemed to only be moving where _Dean_ moved him, which was not fair because Dean really wanted to blame the fact that he was sitting in the back of the Impala cuddling with a guy on Cas.

For probably a full minute, they were both motionless, until Dean finally relaxed a little and rested his cheek against Cas’s temple, and Cas sighed against his neck again and the sensation made Dean shiver. But then it was back to sitting still and silent, and Dean…had no idea how they’d wound up like this. He was _pretty_ sure Cas hadn’t wandered out here to do this, and _Dean_ sure as hell hadn’t been thinking about how he’d really like to canoodle with Cas and generally act like a puss. But that was precisely what had happened, and despite the discomfort that still held his spine a bit rigid, he…wasn’t _entirely_ uncomfortable. ‘Cause, well, with his eyes shut like this, it was just…just Cas. And yeah, he really had been avoiding him for three months, but sitting here, quiet and still and just _with_ him, he realized how that he hadn’t just been avoiding _being_ around him, he’d also been avoiding _thinking_ about him. Now he had no choice but to think about him, and that same thought came back, the same one that he’d been hit in the face with when they’d pulled him up and out of that crater, the same thought he’d had sitting with him in his room, and the same thought he’d had when they’d…done _that_ twenty-four hours later.

Cas. Their Cas. _His_ Cas, the real one, the one he knew. He was here. He was _back_. He was alive and back and _himself_ and Dean hated how he could feel his heart give a painful little squeeze, because he didn’t want to think about that. But he couldn’t help it. Not right now.

Dean listened to the sound of Cas’s breathing, and it didn’t take but a few minutes for it to go deep and even, and he knew Cas was dozing on him. It irritated him, but he wasn’t about to wake him up—not with the fact that he couldn’t be getting more than three or four hours of sleep a night because of his hellacious nightmares. Fine. Cas could…doze on him a little. He did it everywhere else, after all—any time he got quiet and still, he’d just crash, whether it was at the kitchen table or on the couch or in the basement or outside on the porch. Kind of a testament to how exhausted he was most of the time, Dean supposed.

Dean was also irritated at himself simply because he was…not entirely against the idea of letting Cas doze against him.

The part of him that felt sorry for Cas and was fine with all this won out ( _goddammit_ ), partially because Dean was feeling warm and relaxed and a little tired himself despite his nap a couple hours earlier. Besides, he’d…just managed to get _at ease_ back here, so he figured he—might as well take advantage of it.

And really, it…wasn’t so bad. This—this was fine. Cas wasn’t doing anything bad—well, besides sleep on him, and yes, he was definitely asleep now, his leaning had become dead weight. But he wasn’t _too_ heavy, and Dean was resting his arms and hands in spots where it…wasn’t too painfully obvious that this was a _dude_ he was holding. Even though it still was. Dammit.

His eyes tightly shut, he focused on everything that was not dude-related as the minutes ticked by. Like the way Cas sounded as he breathed—that was pretty generic, didn’t necessarily sound like a dude, or anything. And the way Cas’s hair was tickling right behind Dean’s ear because it stuck up in all directions, that was okay; it was also getting kinda shaggy, and Dean made a note to remind Bobby to cut it. And how warm he was—Jesus, he was downright _hot_. Why the hell was Cas always bitching about how cold he was and sleeping under four blankets in the middle of summer? He was like a friggin’ furnace!

…And yeah, that was about it. Everything else? Way too dude-related.

Which was precisely why the fact that Dean was all…warm and starting to relax and feeling—feeling _that_ in his midsection all the worse. ‘Cause he _knew_ what it was, and now that he was back here with Cas, he knew it was here to stay. Three months of avoiding him and barely talking to him and trying to crush that _feeling_ out of existence, and for what? _First time I get him close again, the feeling’s back._ In fact, it was worse than before, because now he was actually having to actively remind himself _not_ to stroke Cas’s back—and this wasn’t just a simple hug or something like that, no, it was a _cuddle_ —he was just holding Cas and while it was horrible and awkward, he still felt warm and his arms felt like _they_ were the ones that wanted to do it despite his brain saying _hell_ no, he shouldn’t _cuddle_ a dude. Fuck. Just—what was he supposed to _do_ with this? What was he—?

_CAR!_

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he just flung himself backwards, shoving Cas off of him at the same time. He barely heard Cas’s startled gasp as he was thrown awake, mostly because Dean had just hit his head hard on the back windshield when his legs had apparently tried to reflexively propel him up and away from this entire scene.

“ _Sonofabitch!_ ” Dean barked, his eyes watering from the pain in his head, but he just twisted in his seat and scrabbled for the door handle. “Cas—you—get inside! _Go_ , goddammit!”

“Dean, I—” Cas sounded confused and worried and like he was starting to panic and _not now_!

“ _Will you just go?!_ Before they see you! _Go!_ ” Dean snarled, finally getting the door open and hurtling out of the car, dearly wishing he could just plant his foot in the middle of Cas’s back and kick him out of the other side at the same time while he was at it. But Cas was already staggering out, shutting the car door and almost running to the house. Right when his hand touched the knob, he turned, looking back at Dean, and Dean saw that stricken look and _fuckballs_ , the idiot would not just _go_ , no, he was sitting there giving him those concerned sheep’s eyes again—!

“I’ll talk to you later,” he growled, forcing his voice down from a shout. “Just—just go help Bobby and Sam. Just _go_!”

And while he didn’t stop looking concerned, Dean saw that the despair Cas was working up just went vanished and that _look_ was there, _goddammit_ —

Then he was gone, vanishing into the house just as Dean had ordered. Dean stood frozen where he was for a moment, quivering in indignation and mortification as he could hear Sam and Bobby getting out of the car out front, their voices too far away for him to make out what they were saying, before he whirled around and stared wildly at the back seat, looking for any evidence that Cas had shown up here. He quickly shut the back doors and then ran around to the front and started wildly pawing through his stuff, grabbing the wax and his rag and wildly starting on another coat so that was all it would look like, him spending quality time with his baby, he’d just started another coat of wax, he’d _not_ been doing _anything else_! They were _not_ gonna find out, and if Cas breathed a _word_ to them, he _would_ kill him, he would kill him _a million times over_ —

He nearly dropped the wax can when the door opened again, and he felt his neck flush horribly when Sam said, “Food’s here, Dean. And we got your oil.”

Dean heard a plastic bag rustling as Sam set the bag aside, and Dean forcefully cleared his throat and refused to turn around, focusing everything he had on rubbing his rag in minute circles on the hood—Sam was seeing enough of his all-too-obvious blush on the back of his neck. “Yeah—uh, I gotta finish up here.”

“She looks good—take you long to do that?”

“Yeah, actually, it did,” Dean said, latching onto it. “I woke up not too long after you left and just been out here all day workin’ on her. Job like this takes a while—but my baby’s worth it.”

“I’ll say—she looks great,” Sam replied. “Well, when you’re done, come on in and eat.”

“Yeah. Uh—yeah.” Oh, Jesus, he sounded horrible. But Sam didn’t say anything, so he breathed a shaky sigh of relief when the door shut again and he was left alone once more.

One thing was for sure—he was _so_ not eating in there with them. Or at least, he was not eating in there as long as there was a chance he’d see _Cas_ again. There was no way he was gonna sit in the same room as Sam and Bobby with Cas there. No, Dean had seen that _look_ , and he remembered the way he’d just sat there and fucking _stared_ at him over the table the morning after he first got unplugged, so he would be so fucking _obvious_ , and Sam and Bobby would _know_ if Dean was in there with them, and there was _no possible way_ he was going to let them find this out.

Well. At least that cleared one thing up—now he knew what to do with it. _Keep it a fucking secret._


End file.
